


you were a kindness when i was a stranger

by carrythesky



Category: The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Fix-It, Friendship, Gen, curt pov, i'm gonna give the curt/karen friendship stans everything they want, post-s2
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:28:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28318989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/carrythesky/pseuds/carrythesky
Summary: “Sleep  on it,” Karen tells him. “If you’re still not feeling it by tomorrow, just shoot me a text and let me know.” She cracks a grin. “Don’t worry,  there’s a pile of headline-making material sitting on my desk if this falls through.”Curtis takes her advice and really thinks it over. Ultimately, it comes down to fear—his. And he refuses to let it drag him down. If he can’t practice what he’s preaching, he shouldn’t be running a group at all.He texts her first thing in the morning:Hi Karen, it’s Curtis. I’m in.
Relationships: Curtis Hoyle & Karen Page, Frank Castle & Curtis Hoyle, Frank Castle/Karen Page
Comments: 45
Kudos: 126
Collections: kastlechristmas2k20





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SuperpowerlessHuman](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SuperpowerlessHuman/gifts).



> merry kastle christmas to lena, aka [superrpowerlesshuman!](https://superrpowerlesshuman.tumblr.com/) this fic was inspired by your tps2 fix-it prompt, featuring curt’s pov because i love him and am eternally salty that we never got any interactions between him and karen in canon. i really hope you enjoy!! happy holidays! ♡♡♡ 
> 
> (title from "you were a kindness" by the national)

Curtis knows how to compartmentalize. Call it an occupational hazard, leftover scraps from his corpsman days, but he does it. The shit they talk about in group would’ve made his toes curl when he first enlisted; now, he just nods and boxes up the ugliness like it’s nothing, packs it away nice and neat where he can’t examine it too closely. Someone at work does a double take at his prosthetic; he doesn’t blink. He can stuff a loaded Beretta under his pillow and sleep like a baby, deep and dreamless. Every day is a clean bisection—soldier, civilian. He tries his damnedest not to let the two overlap.

Then Frank comes back from the dead, and all that goes to shit.

The thing is, Curtis can’t blame him. The man put all the blood and bullshit in the rearview, only for it to follow him home. Curtis still can’t think about Maria and the kids without it twisting something up inside him, tight as a knot. Shit, if it had been him, if he’d been forced to watch, helpless, as his entire family was gunned down right in front of him—

He can’t blame Frank. Maybe that’s how he justifies getting swept up in his crusade, sliding back into that familiar soldier skin, because the alternative is standing by while he loses another friend to the quagmire of war. For all his talk in group about making a life on the other side of it, he’s not sure Frank can. Nothing can touch the bulwark of his grief; it’s all he has.

In the end, Billy gets a face full of glass and the feds swallow up the entire thing like it never happened. Frank goes back to being Pete, and when he shows up at the church a week later, Curtis is honestly a little surprised to see him. He looks like death warmed over, but hey, he’s here, and Curtis sure as hell isn’t going to turn him away. He figures Frank will just nod his head and listen this first go around; instead Frank opens his mouth and admits to a roomful of strangers that he’s scared, that he doesn’t know who he is without a war to fight. Curtis remembers standing in this very room what feels like a lifetime ago, Frank insisting that _happiness is a kick in the balls waiting to happen_ —and hell, he’s battered and bruised enough to prove it, but he’s here anyway. Making good on his second chance.

About fuckin’ time.

The road trip is all Frank’s idea. He brings it up the next time they grab coffee, how it might be nice to get out of town for a while, drive west until the van breaks down or he hits ocean, whatever happens first. He’s researched a route already, found all the cheap motels and sketchy hole-in-the-wall restaurants and even planned out time to hit a few tourist traps along the way. The Punisher, finally getting down to the business of living.

Still, Curtis hears his own words echo in the back of his head— _shit magnet of the highest order._ Frank had laughed when Curtis said it, but the way his glance fell sharply to the floor told Curtis they were both thinking the same thing. There was more than a little shade of truth to the words. Curtis isn’t sure there’s enough miles in the van to keep Frank from the quicksand of bad shit that always seems to pull him under.

But Frank leaves, and it’s mostly radio silence after that. Curtis gets a few texts at first, just Frank letting him know that all’s good, even if he’s tired of guzzling down gas station coffee to stay awake on the drive. Curtis doesn’t hear much else for the next week or so.

It’s good, because Frank isn’t the only one trying to get his compass needle pointed north, trying to find some semblance of normalcy again. Curtis’s daily routine is more or less the same as it was before—work during the day, group on Thursdays, the gym a few mornings a week if he manages to drag his ass out of bed—but he appreciates it now in a way he didn’t before. He even gets over himself and musters up the courage to ask out Delia from HR. She’s whip-smart and funny and miles out of his league, so he’s genuinely shocked when she says yes to dinner. She slides into his cubicle the next day, asking if he wants to grab coffee with her on his lunch break. It’s not long before he’s texting her daily, reaching for her hand in public, making space for her things in his bathroom’s medicine cabinet.

There will always be some juggling to balance the two halves of his life, but it feels easier now, like maybe he doesn’t have to be the guy that sleeps with a gun beneath his pillow. Maybe he can actually breathe for a second.

Curtis should’ve known it was the fuckin’ calm before the storm. The second that Billy wakes up—that’s when it all hits the goddamn fan.

.

“Mr. Hoyle?”

Curtis glances up. There’s a woman standing at his booth, tilting her head to catch his attention. When their eyes meet, she extends a hand.

“Karen Page,” she says. “We spoke on the phone.”

Curtis shakes her hand. “Afternoon.”

His first thought is that she looks familiar, but he can’t quite put a finger on why. He recognized her name when she called—he’s seen her byline in the paper a few times—but he can’t shake the vague sense of déjà vu as she slides into the seat across from him. It’s lunchtime, so there’s a steady flow of people; Curtis watches her scan the room with practiced ease.

“Thanks again for meeting me on such short notice,” she says, shrugging her coat off. “My editor’s breathing down my neck with this deadline.”

Curtis hums knowingly. “I’ve got a sales quota to meet by the end of the month, so I get it.”

“Insurance, right?” Karen reaches into her purse for a pad of paper, holding it up as if to ask _is this okay?_ It’s a strangely efficient gesture, down-to-business without being intrusive.

The problem is that Curtis still isn’t sure how he feels about this whole thing. When Karen first called to express interest in doing a story about his support group, he’d honestly been a little shocked. It never occurred to him that anyone outside the dozen or so people who filter through the church basement every week would care to look closer—and why would it? He’s no stranger to the very specific brand of isolation that comes with being a veteran; that’s one of the main reasons he does what he does. An article in the paper means more exposure, more eyes on the issue—and he's willing to do whatever it takes to generate interest in providing vets the services they need when they come home. Hell, it might even convince someone who was waffling before to join.

So, yeah, he’d agreed to a meeting, but now—he’s having second thoughts. Almost half a year has passed since Frank blew his life wide open, and Curtis is still picking shrapnel from the wound. He’s been doing his best to keep his head down, and selfishly, he worries that a fluff piece like this will throw him and his recent transgressions under a spotlight. How long will it take for someone to link him to Frank? His blood runs cold as memories spin on a turntable in his head—he’s leveling a gun at Detective Mahoney, he’s cinching his belt around Phillip’s leg, unable to do anything but watch helplessly as the kid bleeds out from _his bullet_ —

Resentment swells in his throat, and Curtis forces himself to swallow it down. It’s useless to hold onto his anger—Frank made his choice. He’s down in the muck and shit again, and Curtis is more than a little pissed that it took him this long to realize the bastard actually _likes_ it down there. He was never being pulled under—he was diving into it headfirst.

Curtis clears his throat. “Ms. Page—”

“Karen,” she interjects kindly.

Curtis bobs his head. “Karen. I gotta admit, I’m still on the fence about this.”

“If it makes you feel better, so am I. This is a bit outside my wheelhouse.”

Curtis frowns. “You reached out to me.”

“I did,” Karen agrees. “I think the work you’re doing is really important. I’ve never served, but I know people who have. They could’ve used a support network like yours when they got home.” Her mouth twists ruefully. “To be honest, a low-profile story would be a nice change of pace.”

That’s when it clicks, like a puzzle piece slotting into place—he can’t believe he failed to make the connection until now. She’s the reporter who spoke out against Wilson Fisk; her face was all over the news cycle after the grand jury voted against his indictment. Curtis can’t begin to fathom the nightmare of shaking down that hornet’s nest, and she did it publicly, airing his dirty laundry in broad daylight. There’s a thin line that separates courage from recklessness, but either way, Curtis is impressed.

“Getting tired of making headlines?” he jokes.

Karen laughs. “Something like that. Don’t tell my boss.” She slips her notepad back into her bag. “Why don’t you tell me a little more about what you do? Totally off the record, unless you say otherwise.”

She’s putting the ball squarely in his court. He could leave, no questions asked—instead, he finds himself talking about why he decided to join the Navy, and the claustrophobia of returning home and adjusting to a life that didn’t quite fit anymore. He talks about the weeks he spent holed-up in his apartment, too exhausted to do much besides lay in bed or drag himself to the couch to watch TV. He talks about joining a book club on a whim, because books were what kept him sane overseas. It was something to do, something to pass the time—but somehow discussing the books morphed into discussing life. Love and hate, death and survival—he found solace in those themes, relating them to his own experiences. That’s when he got the idea to start a support group. Nothing too revolutionary, just a few people talking through their shit together. Finding their common themes.

Karen listens while he talks. She asks a couple of questions, but it doesn’t feel like an interview; she seems genuinely interested in hearing what he has to say. By the time his lunch break’s up, he’s infinitely more at ease about the whole thing.

“Sleep on it,” Karen tells him. “If you’re still not feeling it by tomorrow, shoot me a text to let me know.” She cracks a grin. “Don’t worry, there’s a pile of headline-making material sitting on my desk if this falls through.”

Curtis takes her advice and really thinks it over. Ultimately, it comes down to fear—his. And he refuses to let it drag him down. If he can’t practice what he’s preaching, he shouldn’t be running a group in the first place.

He texts her first thing in the morning: _Hi Karen, it’s Curtis. I’m in._

.

Karen stops by the church a few days later. If she feels conspicuous, she’s hiding it well; she shows up early with coffee in hand and helps him set the folding chairs up.

He tried to prep everyone ahead of time, but Karen is still on the receiving end of a few curious glances as people start to filter in. She makes easy small talk with some of them, and gives others a wider berth. Curtis is struck by how well she can read the room—it’s probably what makes her such a successful reporter.

The meeting goes smoothly enough. Their resident alt-righter is out sick this week, so tempers aren’t running quite as high. They get into a good discussion about what starting over looks like once you’re out of the service, how to start over when the skills you’re equipped with are incompatible with civilian life.

“It’s bullshit,” says Lydia, who was recently medically discharged after a training accident. “What am I supposed to do, put ‘rifle assembly’ on a resume?”

“You bring up a good point,” Curtis chimes in. “I’m not gonna lie—ninety-nine percent of job hunting is bullshit. Employers know it, you know it. So the trick is to feed them just the right amount of it.” He gestures in Lydia’s direction. “So, ‘rife assembly’ can be broken down into something like ‘sequenced and completed detail-oriented tasks.’”

Lydia snorts, but he can tell she’s mulling his words over. Curtis lives for these moments; if he’s able to get even one person in group thinking about something from a different perspective than when they walked through the door, he’s done his job.

“What if I don’t want to bullshit anything?” Harold asks. He’s made the military his career, and now that he’s on the other side of retirement, he’s struggling a bit. “This was my life. I don’t want to be anything else.”

“I can totally relate to that,” Karen says. Up until now, she’s been mostly quiet, just listening and taking notes. A few people blink in surprise, and she backtracks. “Sorry, is this okay? I don’t want to interrupt the flow—”

Lydia openly laughs. “Flow? You’re giving this guy”—she jerks a thumb at Curtis—“way too much credit. I would love to hear someone else for a change.”

There’s a rumble of laughter throughout the group, and several people nod. Curtis throws his hands up in mock surrender. “Seems like the people have spoken,” he says.

Karen pauses a beat before speaking again, like she’s gathering her thoughts. “We’re talking about starting over, right? Starting from scratch. That’s something I’ve done more than once in my life.” She nods at Harold. “Each time, I felt exactly like you do—I knew I had to make a change, but I didn’t want to. Or maybe I didn’t _want_ to want to. But in the end, none of that mattered. I learned the hard way that you can only resist change for so long before you hit a breaking point.”

“Damn, man,” Lydia says with a smirk in Curtis’s direction. “She sounds just like you.” She gives Karen a semi-apologetic glance. “Uh, no offense.”

“None taken,” Karen laughs.

A handful of them linger after the meeting. Rahul brings back the GED prep book that Curtis had lent him—his test was last week and he thinks it went pretty well—and by the time they’re done chatting, the room has mostly emptied. Karen and Lydia are standing by the door, and as Curtis makes his way over to them, Lydia pulls Karen into a hug. She shoots a _see you next week_ over her shoulder at Curtis, and then she’s out the door.

“You always this good with first impressions?” he asks.

Karen smirks. “I wish. I just told her that she has her shit together way more than I did when I was her age. And then she was hugging me.”

Curtis nods. “Sounds like Lydia.”

“I’d love to come back next week,” Karen says, moving to help put the chairs up. “You’ve got a great group of people here. It would be nice to chat with a few more of them.”

“Sure. We’re here every Thursday.” He huffs a laugh. “Lydia will be thrilled.”

"I hope it was okay that I butted into the conversation. I know we didn’t chat about that beforehand—”

Curtis shakes his head. “Anyone who’s here has the right to share what’s on their mind. And It’s good for them to hear from people outside the service. I’m glad you were here today.”

“Thanks again for having me,” Karen says.

Curtis gestures at the remaining chairs. “I can take care of the rest.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yeah. Helps to do something with my hands, decompress or something. See you next week?”

"Next week,” she confirms with a nod.

“Take care, Karen.”

She pauses for a moment, one arm half in her sleeve. “Thanks,” she says softly before leaving.

Curtis finishes stacking the chairs in silence. Sometimes he plays music while he works, but his thoughts today are loud enough to drown everything else out. He remembers the last time someone stayed late to help clean—and as usual when he thinks about Frank these days, the memory turns bitter. He’s pissed as hell for what Frank put him through, doesn’t know what to do when that anger bleeds into something else. Damn him, but he still gives a shit about Frank. That’s the part that really stings.

Karen’s words from the meeting stick in his head; what was his breaking point? There were so many domino pieces ready to tip—Billy, the Schultzes, that wide-eyed kid in the trailer. Once the chain reaction started, it was only a matter of time before it swallowed Frank up. The man is lost in the woods, so far in the trees he can’t see what he’s fighting for anymore. Whatever’s broken inside him, Curtis isn’t sure it can be made whole again.

The rest of the day is uneventful. He grabs some groceries on the way home and spends most of the evening binging some nature documentary while aimlessly scrolling through his phone. Somehow he ends up in his contacts, and when he hits Delia’s name, he just stares at it for a few seconds. She blocked him pretty much everywhere, which is probably for the best. He has no idea what the hell he’d say to her even if he could reach her.

Curtis is used to being on his own, but that doesn’t mean he enjoys it. He can feel the loneliness eating away at him, eroding the foundations he’s carefully built since coming home for good. The fucked up thing about it is that he knows he’s isolating himself. A coworker invited him out for a drink last week, and he weaseled out of it with some lame-ass excuse. He’s scared out of his mind to let anyone get too close; Frank’s not the only one who’s a shit magnet.

The cold lump of metal under his pillow that night is reassuring, a reminder that at least some things never change.

.

As it turns out, the universe has a twisted fuckin’ sense of humor.

.

Curtis had taken Karen’s words— _you can only resist change for so long_ —as they were intended; general advice, something to think about. Nothing life or death. That was apparently his first mistake. He hadn’t realized they were actually a warning sign, one of those big flashing neon ones.

Someone is already there when he arrives for group on Thursday. Someone who is distinctly _not_ Karen. Curtis just stands in the doorway, half-convinced the man sitting in front of him is a ghost. There's no way he's real, no way this is happening.

“Hey,” says Frank.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay okay okay i know curt angsting and introspecting all over the place is not jolliest christmas reading material, but i promise i make up for it in the next chapter. :)
> 
> the fic is also rebloggable over on [tumblr!](https://carry-the-sky.tumblr.com/post/638496237520338945/you-were-a-kindness-when-i-was-a-stranger-summary)! thank you so much for reading. ♡


	2. Chapter 2

Curtis got a concussion once as a kid—went headfirst over his bike’s handlebars after taking a corner too fast. Got his bell rung pretty good, even with a helmet. He remembers feeling more dazed than anything, like someone had stuffed his skull with packing peanuts.

Frank Castle showing up out of the blue for the first time in months has a similar effect.

Curtis knows he should probably _say_ something, but his head is empty, nothing but static. The words just aren’t there.

Frank pushes to his feet. He looks a hell of a lot calmer than Curtis feels, but then Curtis sees his trigger finger _tap-tap-tapping_ away at his side, and he can’t help but feel a small pinch of satisfaction. Let the bastard sweat a bit—Curtis is the furthest thing from inclined to make this any easier on him.

“How’s it goin’?” Frank says, like they’re just casually catching up over lunch, and Curtis almost laughs aloud. This whole thing is surreal; Frank, here, in one piece. His voice even sounds normal again.

That’s not the only thing that’s different. Curtis can tell that Frank’s face is a little fuller, free of those purple-blue shadows that seem to permanently lurk under his eyes. He’s gone full Pete-beard again, and he's traded in the black hoodie for a flannel and jeans. He looks—ordinary. If Curtis didn’t know him, he wouldn’t look twice if he passed Frank on the street.

Curtis breathes deep, lets it out nice and slow. “What the hell are you doing here, Frank?”

“Wanted to say hello,” the other man answers, hiking his shoulders slightly. “Figured you wouldn’t shoot me in a church.”

Curtis does laugh at that, clipped and hollow. “Wouldn’t be so sure about that, man. You’re definitely testing my resolve.”

“I know I’m a jackass showin’ up here, Curt—”

“Got that right,” Curtis mutters.

“Hey,” Frank says, voice going a little rough. “Five minutes, yeah? Give me five minutes, and if you wanna throw my ass out after that, you be my guest.”

Curtis shakes his head. “As much as I’d enjoy that, your timing is shit, Frank. I got a reporter from the Bulletin who’s gonna be here any second—”

Frank’s eyes sharpen. “Reporter?”

“Yeah, so if you don’t want your face plastered all over the front page, I suggest you get the hell out of here.”

“Who—”

“Hey, Curtis, sorry I’m a little late. Traffic was terrible—”

Curtis’ eyes snap up. Karen stands in the doorway, frozen like a statue. She’s staring straight at Frank.

_Shit._ She might recognize him. The beard and flannel are a flimsy smokescreen at best; Frank’s face has graced the front page of that paper of hers more than once. Curtis can almost feel the wheels spinning as his brain kicks into high gear, already working out how to get Frank out of this, how to explain away the fuckin’ _Punisher_ standing here talking to him in the middle of the afternoon. Karen’s a good person, decent, but she’s also good at her job. There’s no way she turns a blind eye to this. He has to think of something—

“Frank,” she breathes.

Curtis’ thoughts grind to a halt.

Because—she clearly _does_ know him, but not in the way Curtis was expecting. The way she says his name, soft with disbelief—

For the second time today, Curtis feels like he’s walked into a fever dream.

He glances at Frank, and the man’s got a busted up expression on his face, like one of those abstract paintings that looks like something and nothing all at once.

“Karen,” he says, voice grating over the word, and shit, he sounds more torn up than he looks. He makes a noise in the back of his throat, choked-off like the words are stuck there—then his jaw locks and his gaze ricochets to the ground, the wall, the ground again. Curtis can see his hands shaking from here.

Whatever the hell this is, it’s way above his pay grade. Curtis shakes his head again and starts unstacking chairs from where they hang against the wall. “You should leave, Frank, before everyone gets here here,” he says, glancing over his shoulder at Karen. She looks like she's seen a ghost.

He knows the fuckin’ feeling.

“Hey,” Curtis says, and her head snaps in his direction. “We still good?”

Her gaze wobbles, darts to Frank and then back. “Yeah, of course. We’re good.” Slowly, she moves from the doorway, brushing past Frank like he’s not even there.

“ _Jesus christ_ ,” Frank curses under his breath. He reaches for her. “Karen, this isn’t—”

But whatever he was going to say is lost as voices filter in from the hallway, growing steadily louder. Curtis swallows the bubble of hysterical laughter that’s rising in his throat. This day has already gone sideways; might as well let go and let God, as his pop always used to say.

No one notices Frank, at first. A couple people—Lydia included—greet Karen enthusiastically as they enter the room; the rest settle into the regular routine of milling about at the coffee table.

Rahul is the one who finally spots him. “Pete?” he gapes. “ _Shit_ , man, it’s good to see you! Where you been?”

That gets everyone’s attention. Within the span of a few seconds, Frank has about half a dozen people crowding around him, clapping him on the back and peppering him with questions about how he’s doing, what he’s been up to. Frank pastes on a shaky smile and gives the small talk a good effort, but his eyes keep skittering to where Karen’s arranging the chairs in a wide circle. Curtis can’t remember the last time he saw Frank look so uncomfortable; he’s wound tense as a coil, all potential energy with nowhere to go.

Curtis almost feels bad for him. Almost.

“You’re staying for group, right?” someone asks, and this time Frank locks eyes with Curtis.

Curtis shrugs as if to say _your call_. It’s not like he can throw him out in front of everyone. Beyond that—honestly, he’s relieved. Beneath the layers of hurt and anger is the one thing Curtis has shied away from acknowledging: his fear that maybe this time, Frank stayed dead.

Thankfully, the man seems to have nine lives. And right now, he looks like he’d like nothing more than to sink into the floor and disappear.

Against his better judgment, Curtis throws him a bone.

“Pete just dropped by to say hello. You were on your way out, right?” he asks, fixing Frank with a look that he hopes conveys what he’s thinking: _take the hint, man_.

There’s a ripple of disappointment, but everyone seems to buy it. Frank threads his way over to Curtis, and his relief is almost palpable.

“Thanks, Curt," he says.

“You’re running up a hell of a tab, Frank.” Curtis pinches the bridge of his nose, already regretting what he’s about to say. “You remember that bar over on 12th? After group—I’ll give you one hour. And you’re buying.”

Frank smirks. "Fair enough."

His eyes flick across the room; Karen’s been carefully avoiding looking over here, but it’s like she can feel the weight of his gaze. Curtis sees it, the moment their eyes meet.

Frank’s face opens up like a book, eyes wide and bright. Curtis has never seen him look this vulnerable; even as long as they’ve been friends, he’s always kept the softest parts of himself tucked away. It makes Curtis feel like he’s intruding on something intimate.

Then someone’s saying Karen’s name, and the moment splinters. Frank ducks his head, already sliding the mask back on, and slips out the door.

.

Group passes uneventfully. The conversation picks up from where they left things last week, and aside from injecting a few questions here and there, Curtis is mostly an observer. If he’s being honest, he really enjoys the weeks he can just sit back and let the group carry itself. Makes him feel like it’s bigger than any one person, like it can go on without him being in the driver’s seat.

Karen is quiet through most of the meeting, definitely more reserved than last week. When the hour is up, she tells Curtis she’ll be in touch, thanks him again for having her, and then manages to duck out before anyone notices she’s gone.

Curtis knows it’s none of his business, but he can’t help wondering who she is to Frank. She’s more than an acquaintance, that much is for damn sure. And Frank clearly cares for her. Curtis lets his curiosity simmer, carrying him all the way from the church to Sal’s dive bar.

Frank’s already there when he arrives. True to his word, he’s ordered the first round; he raises his beer up in greeting as Curtis slides onto the bar stool next to him.

“Got you somethin’ a bit stronger,” Frank says, nodding at Curtis’ glass.

Curtis takes a swig and tastes jack and coke. He glances down at his watch. “You’re on the clock, Frank. One hour.”

Frank huffs out a laugh. “Shit, where do I start?”

“How about Karen?” Curtis says. “What was that back at the church?”

Even in the dim bar light, Frank’s eyes flint over. “Long story.”

“Give me the spark notes version.”

Frank taps his thumb against his beer, pointedly avoiding Curtis’ eyes. Then he pushes back in his seat slightly. “Alright, you win. You remember my trial? Karen was on my legal team. She was the one who started digging into what happened to Maria and the kids. All the shit that’s gone down since then—she got caught up in some of it.”

Curtis takes another drink, processing. “And let me guess, you”—he holds his fingers up as air quotes—“pushed her away to keep her safe.”

Frank tips his beer back, hiding a grin. “Guess I deserved that, huh?”

“You’re one predictable son of a bitch, Frank.” He glances sidelong at his friend. “You gonna apologize to her for whatever it is you did?”

The way Frank’s face falls is answer enough. Curtis knows that expression well; whatever happened between the two of them is eating him up inside.

“I’m tired, Curt,” he finally says, each word ragged. “I’m so goddamn tired. All the blood and bullshit—” Frank’s throat bobs as he swallows. “Woke up one morning just sick of all of it. Started thinking about the kids, about Maria—if they could see me, Curt—”

“Don’t do that to yourself, man,” Curtis cuts in. He knows how fiercely Frank loved his family; hearing him tear himself up wondering what they’d think of him now sits a little funny in his gut.

Frank meets his gaze head on. “I’m sorry, Curtis. I know that might not mean shit anymore, not coming from me, but there it is. All the shit I put you through—I never meant for it to go as far as it did. You gotta know that.”

It’s Curtis’ turn to laugh. “I don’t know that. Hell, sometimes—sometimes it seems like you like it when shit hits the fan. You like being backed into a corner, fighting your way out.”

“Yeah, you might be right about that. Still sorry I dragged you into it.”

They drink in silence for a few minutes. It’s a weeknight, so the bar is mostly quiet, just the low thrum of conversation and a thin crackle of music leaking from the radio behind the bar. Curtis can almost pretend that they’re just two friends catching up over a drink, talking about trivial shit like work and the weather and who’s going to the playoffs.

The thing is, Curtis isn’t quite ready to forgive Frank. It’s gonna take more than one night at Sal’s to mend the rift between them. But maybe Frank’s not looking for forgiveness; maybe what he needs tonight is a friend, a brother. Someone who loves him even when they’re pissed as hell at him.

Curtis thinks he can do that.

“So,” he says, eyeing Frank knowingly. “When’re you gonna call her?”

Frank flicks his eyes over, mouth pinching into a line. “Not too sure Karen wants to hear from me, especially after today.”

Curtis shakes his head. “Thought your wallowing asshole days were behind you, man. It’s time to gather your rosebuds.”

Frank snorts. “Quoting old English poetry at me now, huh?”

“You bet your ass. I live for all that _carpe diem_ shit. You say you hung up the vest, right? You’re done with that? Then prove it. You got one life, Frank, so go live it.”

Frank dips his head to the floor. When he looks up again, his eyes are a little wet. “I’m scared, Curt.”

“Shit, Frank, that’s all anyone is. We’re all scared. The hardest thing to do in this world is live in it.” Curtis reaches over and clasps Frank’s shoulder. “But you don’t have to do it alone.”

Frank bobs his head, but Curtis can tell he still can’t quite see it. The man’s been punishing himself for so long; it’s all he thinks he deserves. Curtis has seen enough war and trauma to know that sometimes there’s no coming back from that ledge. Frank has to make that choice himself. He might not be ready yet, but he’s here in this bar instead of out on the streets, and that’s not nothing.

Frank blinks, then tilts his head to squint at Curt’s watch. “Hour’s almost up. Deal’s a deal, yeah?” He slaps a few bills down on the bar and starts to stand.

Curtis holds his almost-empty glass up. “I could go for one more round.”

“Yeah?” Frank asks, and the word cracks a bit.

Curtis feels something loosen up in his chest. “Yeah, man.”

Frank sits back down, and it feels like a step forward.

.

The article runs a few days later. Karen calls to give him a heads up, but the anticipation still jolts down his spine as he thumbs through the paper to find it. Curtis reads it through once, his throat going a little tight as he reads quotes from the vets about how group feels like a family, how it’s helped them find their way back to normal after coming home. Karen’s writing is the backbone of the whole thing, capturing group's essence without bleeding into the melodramatic.

He reads it again, then gives her a call.

“Anything interesting in the paper today?” she says when she answers.

Curtis huffs. “Funny.”

“What did you think?”

“I’m a little overwhelmed,” Curtis admits. “But mostly thrilled that it’s out there. These guys deserve it.”

“Agreed,” Karen says. “And so do you.”

Curtis doesn’t know what to say to that. Group always felt like something he needed to do, a way to reclaim his trauma instead of succumbing to it. He’s never needed or wanted any recognition for it.

“Thanks, Karen,” he finally manages. “And hey, if you ever need something to do on Thursdays, you know where to find us.”

“Even after last week?” She says it lightly enough, but even over the phone Curtis hears the slight strain in her voice. “I felt awful for leaving so quickly.”

“Hey, I get it. Bit of an exciting day.”

She laughs dryly. “You could say that.” A pause, and then— “Do you and Frank keep in touch, or—” she cuts off, and for a second Curtis wonders if the call dropped. “Shit, I’m sorry. That was completely unprofessional. Forget I said anything.”

Curtis knows he should leave it at that, but the tinge of resignation in her words is all too familiar. He remembers what he told Frank all those months ago, hoping this time it might sink in. Disappointed but unsurprised when it didn’t.

_People are gonna care about you whether you want them to or not, Frank._

Karen’s one of the good ones. He knows that Frank knows it, too—and maybe that’s what pushes him to say something now, his better judgment be damned.

“Look, Karen, if I’m overstepping, you tell me to shove it, but—until last week, I hadn’t seen or heard from Frank in months. I know what it’s like to worry about the guy—hell, I wanted him to come back so I could kick his ass myself.”

That pulls a small laugh from the other end of the phone. “Get in line.”

“Yeah, so you get it,” Curtis says through a grin. “I love Frank like a brother, but the man drives me batshit more often than not.”

Karen sighs softly. “I want more for him, you know? More than—whatever the hell he thinks he’s doing out there.”

“I think, deep down, below all the bullshit—I think he wants that, too.”

Silence stretches over the line. “You’re a good friend,” Karen finally says. “It’s nice to know that Frank has one of those.”

“Hey, likewise,” Curtis replies, and he means it. He’s not sure he’ll ever forgive Frank if he lets this woman slip through his grasp.

“I’ll see you around?”

“Absolutely. I’m serious about group—don’t be a stranger.”

Curtis hangs up feeling lighter than he has in weeks. He’s still tempering his expectations for Frank—they’ve been down this road before—but maybe there’s a way out of the woods. Maybe they can both get back to the business of living.

He doesn’t put much stock in new-age bullshit like manifestation or destiny, but it does feel a little prophetic when Frank texts him later that afternoon: _Nice article._

_Yeah, I thought so_ , Curtis types back, followed up with a rose emoji just to see if Frank will take the bait.

He doesn’t have to wait long. His phone buzzes after a few seconds, and Curtis laughs when he reads Frank’s response, knowing the hit landed.

_Shut up, Curt._

.

“—telling you, man, it’s a classic.”

“Yeah, maybe if you’re a middle-aged white lady.”

“Excuse me?” Lydia counters, spreading her arms. “Do I look middle-aged or white to you?”

Rahul just shrugs and leans back in his seat. The conversation tonight had started simply enough before quickly devolving into an argument about books, of all things. Lydia had offered up a few that resonate with her, one of them being _Pride and Prejudice._ Rahul had looked at her like she was an alien, and now here they are.

“If it helps, I’ve read it too,” Curt cuts in. “I’ll admit it’s a little dense at first, but it’s a classic for a reason. Ultimately, it’s about acceptance. Not judging someone before you’ve gotten a chance to know them. That’s something all of us in this room can relate to, right?”

There are some begrudging nods, but Rahul shakes his head. “Nah, man. No way some English lady who lived, like, a hundred years ago knows anything about my life.”

Lydia scowls, but Curtis holds up a hand. “That’s a valid opinion. But I bet if you gave it a chance, you’d be surprised.”

“You talking about Jane Austen again, Curt?”

Heads swivel toward the source of the sound, and Curtis looks up to see Frank walking through the door. He pulls a chair off the rack and slides between Rahul and Lydia. “Sorry I’m late. And uh, for the record—her novels are the good shit.”

“Not you too, man,” Rahul groans.

“Got me through one of my first tours,” Frank replies. He gestures at Curtis. “This guy wouldn’t stop talking my ear off about it, so I finally took the damn thing just to shut him up. Stayed up half the night reading it. Curtis knows his shit.”

Curtis feels himself smiling. “Good to have you back, Pete.”

It is. It really is.

Frank makes the rounds after group, catching up with all the vets he knew from before and even chatting with some of the newer members. Curtis catches Lydia fist-bumping him, and he almost shakes his head in disbelief. If someone had told him two weeks ago that Frank would be here, in this room, smiling and making small talk, he would’ve laughed right in their face.

“Hey, man,” Rahul says, walking up to him. His face goes a little sheepish. “So, uh, if you have that book on you—”

Curtis blinks. “You’re really gonna give it a shot?”

Rahul shrugs. “Yeah, I mean—you and Pete both think it's, like, God's gift to literature, or whatever, so how bad can it be?” He glances over his shoulder surreptitiously. “Just don’t tell Lydia, yeah?”

Curt claps him on the back. “Deal. I’ll bring it next week.”

Rahul nods, then jerks his head in the direction of the door. “Hey, did you see who’s here?”

Curtis frowns, peering over Rahul’s head in that direction—

Karen is standing beside Frank, her head thrown back in laughter at something that Lydia has said. She’s in her work clothes, but her hair looks a little glossier, and she’s definitely wearing lipstick. Curtis watches as Frank brings his hand to the small of her back in a gesture that’s effortless, like this isn’t the first time he’s done it.

_Gather your rosebuds, Frank._

The bastard really did it. Curtis hadn’t realized until now how badly he wanted this for him—something to live for after the war was over. 

Karen catches Curtis’ eye and gently peels herself away. “Long time no see,” she says, coming up to him. “I would’ve been here tonight, but Ellison’s got us working overtime on this city councilman thing.”

Curtis nods. He’s heard a few things through the grapevine—embezzlement in the councilman’s office, real original—and he wondered if Karen would be following it. “Back to making headlines?” he quips.

“Maybe just one more,” Karen laughs.

Curtis tips his head in Frank’s direction. “So, guess he finally pulled his head out of his ass.”

Karen follows his gaze. The look on her face is in direct contrast to the one Frank was wearing last week, love and warmth and so much hope. It's all the answer Curtis needs.

"About damn time," he says.

Karen's mouth curves into a soft smile. “No argument there. Hey, we were going to grab dinner at that new Thai place on 7th—you’re welcome to come with, if you’re not busy.”

Curtis considers it for a second, but the last thing he wants to be for either of them is a third wheel. They deserve some time for themselves. He has all the time in the world to give Frank shit about this; he’ll let him have one night of peace.

“Let me take a raincheck,” he says. “Next week sometime?”

“Next week is perfect,” Karen replies. “See you then.”

The other vets are trickling out now, waving and calling out goodbyes over their shoulder. Karen makes her way back over to Frank, giving his hand a gentle squeeze. She leans in to say something in his ear, and he casts a glance back at Curtis.

Curtis bobs his head once, and Frank returns the gesture, mouth creasing into a smile; then he turns and follows Karen out the door.

Curtis watches him leave, thinking he’s never been more happy to do so.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> open_communication_ is_something_that_can_be_so_personal.jpg
> 
> happiest of holidays to lena, who gave me an excuse to write ~7k of various people just...talking their feelings out. this was very cathartic to write, and i really hope you enjoy!! 
> 
> thank you so much for reading! :)
> 
> (also snuck some west wing and btvs references in here because why not)


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